Dry Bones

by Sally Spencer

  Surprise had temporarily numbed Boulting’s instincts, but now they were back up again, working at full throttle. And what his instincts said to him was that if you went into your room and found five uninvited guests there – guests who, moreover, didn’t seem to be feeling the least bit awkward about the situation – then what you should do is get the hell out of there, as quickly as you possibly could.

  He turned to the door. The two officers who’d thrust him into the room were standing firmly in front of it, legs spread and anchored to the ground, eyes watchful, hands one muscular process away from forming fists.

  He turned back again, and noticed, for the first time, that a ceremonial sword had been laid diagonally across the table and had its tip pointing neutrally towards the corner of the room.

  He almost laughed out loud, but then decided that the worst way you could insult a serious man was by not taking him seriously.

  Instead, he contented himself with saying, ‘You appear to have organised a court martial!’

  ‘That’s right,’ one of the young men at the table agreed.

  Downes! Boulting remembered now – his name was Downes!

  ‘But you can’t do that, Downes, old chap!’ he said, and now he could see how ludicrous the whole thing was, he was starting to find it rather amusing. ‘A court martial can only be conducted by high-ranking officers, and you, my friend, are no more than a second lieutenant.’

  ‘I am not your friend,’ Downes told him. ‘And as far as the court martial goes, I have my standing orders to guide me. And what do they say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘They say that if, for any reason, a military court needs to be convened, then it may be convened by the highest ranking officer available at the time, and that – if only by seniority of service – is me.’

  ‘And why should one need to be convened?’

  ‘It needs to be convened to try you, Boulting, for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.’

  ‘But I’m not a soldier,’ Boulting pointed out. ‘So even if you are entitled to conduct a court martial, you have no jurisdiction over me.’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ Downes said, in a tone which suggested that Boulting’s words had caused him actual physical pain. ‘Do you think we don’t know what you did this morning?’

  The girl! Boulting thought in a panic.

  No, wait a minute, he hadn’t touched the girl, and anyway, that had been in the afternoon.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘This morning, you were commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Welsh Engineers,’ Downes said.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Boulting gasped.

  ‘If it’s the truth – and it is – then it doesn’t really matter how we know, does it?’ Downes asked.

  The captain! Boulting thought – the sneering, supercilious captain at the recruitment office, who’d taken a personal and unreasonable dislike to him, had probably tipped them off.

  ‘This is ludicrous!’ he said. ‘You’re not children playing in the garden. This is real life, and if you think I’m going to take this kangaroo court seriously, then you must be completely out of your minds.’

  ‘Perhaps we are out of our minds,’ Downes said seriously. ‘When you’ve been to the front – as we all have – and seen men, who’ve been your friends all your life, blown into a dozen pieces, as if they were of absolutely no consequence, then perhaps you do become unhinged. But I don’t think you ever lose your sense of what is right and what is wrong.’

  ‘Listen …’ Boulting began.

  ‘And as far as taking us seriously,’ Downes continued, opening his holster and placing his service revolver on the table, ‘I would advise you to take us very seriously indeed.’ He paused. ‘During these proceedings, Lieutenant Springer will present the case for the prosecution, and Lieutenant Cole will act as your defence counsel. Lieutenant Matlock and I will be the judges.’ He turned to the men standing at the door. ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re ready,’ they replied.

  ‘Then present your evidence, Lieutenant Springer.’

  The lieutenant stepped forward – but not so far forward that he was no longer a barrier to Boulting making an escape.

  ‘I call Hector Judd,’ he said.

  Judd looked around the room, as if searching for the spot on which he should be standing.

  ‘You’re fine where you are, Private Judd,’ Springer said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Judd replied.

  ‘Would you care to give your evidence?’ Springer asked.

  Judd cleared his throat. ‘In October last year, I was Parliamentary Recruitment Committee canvasser, and in that capacity I went to see this man,’ Judd said.

  ‘You must name him,’ Springer said.

  ‘Boulting – Albert Boulting.’

  ‘And why did you go to see him?’

  ‘I had to present him with a letter from the Earl of Derby, asking him to join the army.’

  ‘And did you give him the letter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you saw him read it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And what did he say when he’d finished reading the letter?’

  ‘He said he’d think about it.’ Judd paused for a moment. ‘He also mocked me for having only one arm.’

  ‘I did not mock him,’ Boulting protested. ‘I sang a popular and patriotic song to him. I thought it would amuse him.’

  ‘Do you deny you refused to join the army?’ Downes asked.

  ‘No, I don’t deny it,’ Boulting said, with some bravado. ‘It’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Downes agreed. ‘It’s not a crime. My own personal feeling is that it should be on a par with desertion – and if you refused to join the army you should be shot – but we are working within the existing laws here.’

  No, they weren’t, Boulting thought – they were making it up as they went along.

  ‘Well, now that’s settled, I’d appreciate it if you’d all leave my room,’ he said.

  ‘Is there more, Lieutenant Springer?’ Downes asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’

  ‘Then, by all means, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Lieutenant Boulting is a well-known and notorious paedophile, sir,’ Springer said.

  ‘Aren’t you going to object?’ Boulting asked Lieutenant Cole, his supposed defence counsel.

  Lieutenant Cole shrugged. ‘So far, I’ve heard nothing to object to.’

  ‘Then I’ll object,’ Boulting said. ‘What gives you the right to call me a paedophile, Lieutenant Springer?’

  ‘It’s a well-known fact. Everybody in college knows.’

  ‘What people think is proof of nothing,’ Boulting said. ‘To successfully make your case, you need either eye witnesses or strong physical evidence – and preferably, both.’

  And then, as Lieutenant Springer reached into his uniform pocket, Boulting felt his heart sink.

  What Springer had removed was a worn envelope – an envelope that was very familiar to Boulting.

  ‘In this envelope are pictures of young girls photographed in the most disgusting and degrading positions,’ Springer said. ‘I have sisters of my own, so those pictures made me almost physically ill.’

  ‘They’re not mine,’ Boulting said. ‘Someone must have planted them in my underwear drawer.’

  He realised his mistake the moment he had spoken, and could only hope that none of the others would spot it.

  ‘If they are not yours, how do you know that they were in your underwear drawer?’ Springer asked.

  ‘If I was trying to frame someone, that’s just where I’d put them,’ Boulting said.

  ‘So, they are not yours,’ Springer said. ‘In that case, you will have no objection to us burning them, will you?’

  It felt to Boulting as if an ice pick had been driven into his heart. It had taken time and money – and yes, love! – to build up the collecti
on, and it was his most precious possession. On the other hand, it was always possible he could build up another collection, whereas if he lost his life – and that was looking more and more likely – it was gone for good.

  ‘No, I have no objection to you burning them,’ he said, and then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he added, ‘Might I see exactly what it is that you’re burning, before you commit them to the flames?’

  Springer gave him a look which said he was beyond contempt, and walked over to the fireplace. He took one photograph out, held it up to the flame and watched it burn. Then, when the flame had almost reached his fingers, he held what was left of the picture over the fire, and let the updraft take charge of it. The process completed, he extracted another photograph from the envelope.

  He could have burned them all at once, Boulting thought, but he wants to see me suffer – they all want to see me suffer.

  He turned his attention back onto Downes.

  ‘Apart from a few rumours – which I unequivocally deny – and an envelope of photographs, which I have never seen before, you have no evidence. All you do have is supposition – and both you know and I know – full well – that in no court in the land could you ever get me convicted on anything so flimsy.’

  Downes shook his head gravely. ‘What you say might well be the case if this trial were being held in a civilian court, but the standard of proof in a military court is nothing like as rigorous as that required elsewhere. In a military court, we have leave to use our own powers of judgement.’

  Boulting was a good amateur psychologist – any man who wished to exploit the weaknesses and uncertainties of children for his own benefit had to be – and he was finally starting to understand what was driving these men, and what they wanted. And with that understanding, real deep fear – stomach-churning fear, screaming-from the-bottom-of-his-lungs fear – came at last.

  The story of the evil dragon threatening the kingdom might be no more than mythology, but its symbolism had been burned deep into the souls of these intense young men, he thought. The German army was the evil dragon, as far as they were concerned, and they had gone off like knights in shining armour to slay it. But once they were abroad, they had soon discovered that virtue was not enough – that evil, if it was well armed and well trained, had just as much of a chance of triumphing as good did. And so they had scaled back their ambitions. If they couldn’t kill a full-sized dragon, then they would look for a baby one – a slice of evil small enough for them to deal with themselves.

  I’m that slice of evil, Boulting told himself, and there’s not one chance in a million that they’re going to let me get away.

  And at that, his bowels opened, and the room was filled with the unpleasant smell of fear and desperation.

  A look of disgust appeared on the faces of the other men in the room, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and had been replaced with the most neutral – clearly artificial – of expressions.

  They’re pretending not to notice because it will embarrass me, Boulting thought. They’re going to propose some horrible punishment for me, but it would still be bad form to increase my embarrassment.

  It was ludicrous! The whole thing was insane. But wrapped up in their blankets of earnestness and self-righteousness, these four young soldiers – battle-hardened at the age of twenty – would never see it.

  Matlock and Downes exchanged a brief glance which said that they, as the judges in the case, had heard enough, and had already reached a verdict. Matlock swivelled around the sword on the table, so that its point was no longer directed at the corner, but instead singled out Boulting.

  Lieutenant Downes reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a silver cigarette case.

  ‘Would you like a gasper, old chap?’ he asked Boulting, in the friendliest possible tones.

  Boulting took the cigarette between trembling fingers. Downes struck a match and held it out, but Boulting seemed incapable of homing in on it, and every time Downes moved the match to accommodate him, Boulting’s hands seemed to decide to move in the opposite direction. Finally, when the match had burned down so far down that it was almost at Lieutenant Downes’ fingertips, Lieutenant Matlock stood up and cupped his own hands around Boulting’s to steady them, so that the operation could be completed.

  Downes waited patiently until Boulting had sucked greedily on the cigarette a couple of times.

  Then he said, ‘It pains me to say this to a fellow member of St Luke’s, but you have no self-discipline, nor self-restraint. You have dishonoured this college, and though you have not even begun to serve with them in any formal sense, you have dishonoured the Welsh Engineers. I could pass sentence now, but such a formality could be set aside if you were prepared, voluntarily, to take the opportunity of personally redeeming at least a little of your honour.’

  ‘Pass sentence! Redeem myself!’ Boulting asked, in a voice in which it was hard to separate the anger from the fear. ‘What do you plan on doing with me if I don’t agree to do something to redeem myself? Will you march me out in front of a firing squad?’

  ‘For all sorts of reasons, most of which should be obvious even to you, that is the one option we are hoping to avoid if we possibly can,’ Downes said, with all the deadly seriousness and gravity of a high court judge. ‘But only if we possibly can,’ he added, ominously.

  And as Matlock removed the sword from the table, Downes reached into a bag which had been resting at his feet, and took out a crystal tumbler and a bottle of whisky. He placed both the tumbler and bottle on the table, next to the service revolver.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I kill myself?’ asked Boulting, who had anticipated being killed, but never this.

  ‘I would recommend that you drink only one or two glasses of whisky – which should be just enough to give you sufficient courage,’ Downes said. ‘Take more, and there is a real danger of either undermining your purpose or of becoming maudlin.’

  ‘You really do expect me to go through with this, don’t you?’ Boulting demanded.

  ‘I appreciate the fact that a man of your predilections may have no experience of using small arms,’ Downes said, standing up, ‘but this pistol is simplicity itself. I have already cocked it, so all you need to do is to place the barrel against your forehead and pull the trigger.’

  And then, whilst not exactly melting into the night, Boulting’s visitors were gone.

  But they hadn’t gone far. He heard the door click behind them, but not the sound of their footsteps going down the stairs.

  They were waiting on the landing, he told himself – maintaining a silent vigil until he decided to do the right thing.

  As calmly as he could, he considered his options.

  They had left him with a loaded weapon, which, with a lot of men, would have been a big mistake to make. But it wasn’t a mistake with him – they had assessed the situation accurately, and knew that he did not have the stomach for shooting his way out. Besides, even if they’d got that wrong, they had three guns to his one.

  So what would happen if he simply called their bluff?

  That wouldn’t work, because after the crushing disillusionment of their experiences in France, they had their hearts set on getting a little of what they saw as justice in England – and they would not be denied it. If he would not kill himself, then they would have absolutely no qualms about doing it.

  There was only one option – and that was escape.

  Boulting opened the window, and looked down. In the light of a pale moon he examined the three-floor drop to the quad below, and quickly decided it was far too far to jump.

  But he didn’t have to jump, because growing up the stone wall was an ivy plant which had probably been there when King Charles I lost the Civil War (and then his head), and was as much a part of the building as the oak doors and mullioned windows.

  He stepped onto the ledge, and grabbed hold of what felt like a very strong strand of ivy. Then he turned – awkwardly, because of the
restricted space – until his back was to the outside world.

  He lowered one foot off the ledge, while keeping the other firmly in place. But that served no useful purpose, because he couldn’t test the strength of the ivy until it was holding all his weight.

  He took a very deep breath, and launched his other foot away from the safety of the window ledge.

  He had been squashed up on the ledge, but once his feet had nothing but air under them, he began to fall – and continued to fall until his body was stretched to the limit.

  The whole process could not have taken more than a split second, but it had felt like hours. The muscles in his arms burned from taking on such unaccustomed – and unexpected – weight, but his grip was firm, and the ivy was holding.

  His next step was to release the grip he had with his left hand and establish another grip, closer to the ground. This meant that instead of being vertical, his body was at an angle, but when he repeated the manoeuvre with his right hand, this was corrected.

  He would have to go through all this at least ten or twelve times before he reached the ground, he calculated, and he could only pray that the self-righteous maniacs who were waiting on the landing would not lose patience, and go back into his room to find out why it was taking him so long to do what they considered to be the ‘right’ thing.

  He had no immediate plan of what to do once he reached the ground, he suddenly realised.

  What should he do?

  Should he throw himself under the dean’s protection, in the belief that however mad the four young officers were, they still had enough of a sense of tradition to respect the man’s authority?

  But that assumed the dean would protect him, didn’t it – and who could say, on an evening in which the whole world seemed to have gone mad, that that was still the case?

  It might just be best to make a run for it while he could. But dare he risk taking a train – which was the first place that his tormentors would probably look for him?